AN: Yeah, I know it marks me as an Old in the world of fanfic, but old habits and paranoia die hard. I own nothing Timeless but for the plot bunnies racing through the briar patch. I blame them for everything.

The way you teased me that morning.

The gentleness with which you did so.

The way you smiled—a smile I'd never before seen from you—and the manner in which you simply sat back and regarded me as I gradually recognized my surroundings and recalled the events which had brought me to your door.

And recalled the vodka. So much vodka. The next time I had to drink vodka on a mission, I very nearly gave up the game. And my lunch. It was only that smug, insufferable smile of yours—the one that said you knew exactly what I was feeling and why—that kept me from completely blowing our covers.

You made me coffee.

You listened.

Clearly, based on what you said, you listened a lot.

You told me you enjoyed my company.

Do you have any idea how long it had been since anyone had said they simply enjoyed my company for its own sake?

Do you have any idea how that made me feel?

I somehow suspect you did.

Most of all, though, you understood. You understood what I meant when I said you were the easiest person to talk to. Because you'd lost everything as well. You were every bit as alone as I was in the world.

I underestimated you for so long. About so many different things. I don't even know how to say I'm sorry for that. Sorry just seems so terribly inadequate.

I'll never underestimate you again. And I'll never not be there for you. I promise you that from the bottom of my heart.

L.

P.S. By the way—you were wrong, you know. My abject horror had nothing to do with the thought of sleeping with you. It did, however, have everything to do with the thought that we had and I couldn't remember any of it.

For whatever that's worth.

As soon as the door had clicked quietly shut behind her, Flynn reached for the leather-bound Bible resting on the table beside him. He'd long since ceased believing, but this small, homely, well-worn copy—his mother's—he kept close by. It not only symbolized his last significant connection to his mother, but perhaps the first significant connection he'd made with Denise Christopher. Not long after he'd appeared in the bunker, she'd pulled him aside and handed him a small box filled with what few personal possession remained to his name.

There had been no apologies for his arrest, nor would there ever be, he knew. She had simply been doing her job and in her position, he likely would have not only done the same, but worse, truth be known. The return of this box, however, had been an unexpected and surprisingly touching kindness. She'd presented it to him with little fanfare—just a direct, sympathetic look and a murmured, "We lose enough of our past in this job—it's important to preserve what little anchors us."

He'd understood what she'd left unsaid—that she'd gone through those meager belongings. She knew what was in there. She knew his history. And understood exactly why he'd gone to such effort to preserve these few, small things that spoke to a life left long behind.

From long use and habit, the book fell open to a particular page to reveal the sole surviving photo of Lorena and Iris. Silently, he read the verses he'd long ago chosen to cradle their images:

…for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the LORD do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.

With a quiet sigh he ran his fingertips over their beautiful, beloved faces before lifting it to his lips for a brief kiss. Tucking it back into place, he leafed forward to Ecclesiastes and drew out the carefully folded sheet that had only lived in that spot for a matter of hours. For perhaps the dozenth time that day, he read the careful, neat script even though like the rest of the journal, he'd long since committed it to memory. Just in case he ever lost it as he thought he had so many months earlier.

Even with the confidence in his own memory, he'd nevertheless felt compelled to sneak down to the Lifeboat where the journal lived, journeying with them to keep the record of their original timeline preserved. With great care he'd torn the undated page free from its place near the back of the book and returned to his room where, as Lucy continued to sleep heavily, he read the page for the first time in many months.

However, for the first time, he read it from a very different perspective.

All this time, he'd assumed that page was about Wyatt. So much else in the journal was, after all, so why should this particular page be any different?

He had, in fact, not given it a second thought, given it didn't seem particularly important to their mission, until the moment she appeared at his door, weary and heartsore beyond measure, vodka in hand. The vodka had tipped him off, the memory of this page teasing the back of his brain like a particularly persistent itch, The longer they'd spoken, the more intense their particularly unique connection had grown, the more certain he'd become of that particular entry's provenance.

He might never know why she didn't refer to him by name in the entry. Perhaps it had to do with knowing his state of mind when she would give him the journal. Two weeks out from losing his family, the last thing he would want to potentially read was an encounter with another woman that could potentially be construed as flirtatious.

Or…more.

Much in the way he'd caressed the faces of his wife and daughter, he gently traced the subtle indentations her pen had created as she wrote before gently kissing the page. And as he'd done with the photograph, he read the page he'd selected to be the entry's new home.

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

"A time to love and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace," he finished aloud, his voice barely higher than a murmur, yet ringing with the fervor of a prayer.

With great care, he folded the page, placed it within the book, and gently closed it. As soon as he was able, he would take it to the Lifeboat and place it in the same lockbox as the journal. And if anyone asked, he would say it was for the same purpose as the journal or Christopher's flash drive.

He doubted anyone would ask, however. Pleasant benefit of having been seen as a fearsome amoral terrorist for so long.

He rubbed his eyes, gritty from lack of sleep, yet he remained oddly keyed up and awake. The fact that the entry's postscript kept flashing through his mind might have something to do with the latter, he thought wryly, as well as the pleasant, nearly-forgotten heat low in his gut.

"Certainly, we know from hate and war, my Lucy. Perhaps—just…perhaps—we might one day be fortunate enough to know once again of love and peace." He smiled faintly as he regarded the rumpled blanket and abandoned coffee cup.

"Until then, however, I'll never not be there for you. I promise you that from the bottom of my heart."

AN: Bible verses source:

King James edition

Ruth 1:16-17
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8